


Can your healing hands heal my hurting Heart?

by Baby_Fangirl



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Coven
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, old times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-25 11:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10763142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baby_Fangirl/pseuds/Baby_Fangirl
Summary: When a crusade of bandits unsuccessfully attempt to raid the Sheriffs carriage, the only survivor, a curly-haired outlaw is gravely injured, and with winter coming on fast she seeks help from an infamous herbalist.





	1. I'm Just a Thief

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have an exact era for this... So just think somewhere between Robin Hood and Dick Turpin. Much Love! ~Baby Fangirl

 

It had all been a disaster.

Misty had advised her crusade that the snowfall didn’t make good heist conditions, and that the usual forest freeway would be too open in these surroundings; they would either freeze to death or be butchered by the sheriff’s guards and any attempted raid would most likely be thwarted and end in bloodshed.

An incursion was always much easier to plan and more prospective to gain in the summer, when the weather was not so harsh and bitter, and the bandits could set decent traps in order to invade the horse-drawn carriages that stole away from the city whether in the light of broad day or in the eerie silence of the dead night; they were waiting.

But they had all been hungry and restless. Now winter had arrived, game was rare; the animals had gone south or into hibernation and the bandits had spent their last stolen gold and traded the last of the jewellery to buy meat whole from the market, at least the pelts would keep off some of the cold.

It was that awful evening when their leader; Father Legba, a sentenced priest, had grown sick of being able to count the bones of his men and women; grown tired of having to dig another unmarked grave for one of his scandals that couldn’t make it through the night; that was when he ordered another raid… one more, final raid.

Nobody had listened to Misty when she forewarned them that there had been no plan, after all, no strategy worked the same way twice, still, even _she_ couldn’t bear the ever-existing hollow pain of an empty stomach and the tremendous shivers that wracked her body in the frost-tainted wind.

And so she had agreed, gearing up with all that she had; a worn waterskin pouch only half full and her 36 Calibre pistol; positive she was going to need it that night.

As soon as the first gun-shot sounded, the dirty blonde knew everything was going wrong. The duo of horses reared, throwing the rider back and onto the hard ground; grinding hooves came down with a heavy thud and a horrid scream tore from one of their men, the tell-tale crunch of bone cracking in her ears. Then came the shouts, boyish cries of war as they charged, guns, knives, pitchforks in motion; all of them coming to life, Misty too.

Gunshot after gunshot fired from the carriage, puffs of smoke arising after every deafening bang and Misty witnessed her fellow plunderers drop one by one around her with screams of agony or equally terrifying silence.

Another bang, and the woman let loose a splitting cry of pain before falling backwards into the rippling creek.

* * *

 

 

_Three Days Later._

 

The crunch of the snow beneath the golden mare’s hooves was hypnotic, soft, yet crisp but all too cold; and Misty found it beyond difficult to stay awake, her head falling more than once until she shook the ever-increasing fatigue from her heavy mind. Thankfully the snow had at least stopped falling in the past hour, and she had managed to brush most of the collection from her coat. Her Mustang panted, her hot breath turning to steam in the bitter chill. She was well-built, at least she was when Misty had stolen her from the ranch she had crossed two days ago when she stumbled into the nearby town, seeking shelter and medical help; but now the horse was just as hungry as her, occasionally stopping to rest and nudge her muzzle through the thick blanket of freshly-laden snow to gorge on the wet grass beneath it.

Now, her mare slowly made it’s way to the herbalist’s house in the clearing of the wild forest, stopping at the ivy-covered fence surrounding the dark, rather threadbare cottage.

The bullet wound had become warmer, the muscles stiff and achingly so. It pained her greatly to move, just to keep herself balanced on her horse was a challenge without wincing in pain, hot tears soon leaking upon ice-cold pale cheeks.

The little town she had passed had offered her no remedy for her wound, save for some spare cloths she could use for wrappings; and they had bought several of the possessions that had belonged to her dead crusade, a few guns, some good boots, knives and several pieces of bone jewelry. But they did offer the location of a herbalist that dealt with injuries like hers, and had let the dirty blonde buy some bread and fresh hare with the money from the scraps she had sold.

And that agonizing morning, Misty had decided that she simply could not wait any longer.

The curly-haired woman forced herself to take a shaky inhale before she swung her leg over her mare, gracelessly dismounting. When the bottom of her boots collided with snow, Misty almost collapsed, knees growing wet as the snow soaked through her worn garments and somehow, she managed to stand wearily, unable to use her left arm at all as she slouched against the golden horse for support.

Even through her fevered haziness, Misty still instinctually froze on the spot at the sound of a gun cocking from behind and all she felt was disappointment overwhelm her: for the past three days, she had survived the graze of a bullet; the stinging of infection; the turmoil of starvation and the bitter cold winter… just for it all to come down to this.

“Hold it right there,” A feminine voice ordered, a seriousness coating her tone in thick undermining instruction, “Who are you?” She continued in clipping words, an intrusive sharpness lining every annunciation that passed her lips.

The curly blonde opened her mouth to speak, though her throat felt awfully dry and painful, like she’d swallowed sand, it was then that she tried to remember the last time she’d drank something, “My- my name’s Misty Day,” her voice was strained, cracking at the slightest force of a word, “Benson sent me, said you could help me.” Misty reckoned, still facing away from the unidentified stranger.

“I’m no nun, and this isn’t a charity. You got money?” The other woman inquired with a cautious glare still tinting dark-chocolate eyes, her gun clasped in both hands, numb and white from the sudden exposure to the cold.

The pillager nodded slowly, what little colour that remained in her cheeks draining at the woozy effort of staying upright, “Yes, but only for confidential services. I may be hurt, but I can still hit a tick off a wee pup from twenty feet if ya try anything funny.” She warned with as much sincerity as she could muster. The fact was true, Misty was indeed a talented shooter, but at that moment, the scruffy raider couldn’t even raise her weapon without losing consciousness.

“Put your hands up and turn around real slow,” the voice commanded in wariness and vigilance, the barrel aimed still at her back; and Misty tried to comply, but her left arm was locked into her side. She raised her right hand to the level of her height before her loss of energy brought it back down again.

“As I said, I’m hurt.” She turned and capitulated with the effort, Misty’s knees giving away beneath her, buckling indecisively and her vision darkened. The wound agitated instantly, crimson red drops ran the length of her arm and fell from under her coat sleeves, sullying the untouched snow with daunting blood upon a pure white blanket.

The outlaw coughed and spluttered, the pain all the more evident in her throat and she forced herself to glance up with hazed blue eyes, the scene coming in and out of focus. The medicinal woman was in front of her now, and Misty managed to get somewhat of a decent look at her, before her vision blurred again.

The healer had long, straight golden hair that she had tied behind her with brown ribbon; the same colour as her round doe-like eyes. She wore a long, burgundy skirt with a mahogany bodice and a white flowing chemise beneath it.

But the gun was no longer pointing at her; in fact, Misty felt like she was floating, only slightly aware that the slightly smaller blonde woman was supporting her steadily as she led them through the snow-laden garden towards the cottage.

“Was it a knife or a bullet?” The remedial blonde inquired, helping the taller woman through the front door and into the front lounge.

The cottage was all one room and rather small, but after spending the last few years living outside, sometimes in the haven of the trees, or the side alleys of the city where they used to shamefully beg when no carriages were coming or going; after seasons of coming close to death, Misty was beyond amazed.

A warm fire crackled in the hearth of the fireplace, a half-filled bronze bowl hanging off the spit over the orange flames. Stone stretched beneath her feet, filling the expanse of the room. Dried herbs and bales of stocked weeds were hanging from parts of the ceiling, somehow organized in ways Misty couldn’t comprehend; still the smell was pleasingly overpowering, a concoction of the most exotic yet beautiful aromas. Most of the furniture was wooden; the couch lined with large cushions and a worn red blanket, and on the walls lined several wooden shelves hosting an array of books, more vials and corked bottles with seeds and extra herbs.

On the other side of the cottage was a comfy looking bed, draped with thick animal furs and white sheets; beside it stood a carved bureau and a cupboard with a basin standing proudly on top. Adjacent was a large cabinet, and a deep tub and all in all, it was a sweet little place.

 “I cut it on some fencing when I was out feeding-” The outlaw began as she stood awkwardly by the door, leaning on the frame whilst the other woman pulled the pot off of the flames; but the healer cut across her with a scowl that illuminated dangerously with the orange glow of the fire before approaching the taller blonde yet again.

“Don’t lie Misty Day. Benson wouldn’t have sent you to me if what you’d been doing was some every day to day tragedy. She only ever sends the troublesome ones up here.” The older of the two commented, her tone now free from expression aside the slight command. The dirty blonde swallowed roughly, but her mouth was dry.

“Bullet graze… thought it would be fine with just some wrapping on it. But past few days it’s…” she faltered at the contact when the woman gently removed Misty’s deerskin coat and hissed at seeing the thin fabric of her dress-like tunic crusted with rust coloured stains. Dark eyes narrowed in critical concern, brows furrowed as the herbalist shook her head, gesturing towards the curly-haired blonde.

“Come here by the fire, we need to get that off so I can see the wound.” She dictated, pulling one of the cushions off of a nearby chair for Misty to sit on; and the younger woman hobbled her way over, supporting herself with every piece of furniture within reach.

“I can’t get it off, been wearing it since the Sheriff’s heist,” Misty offered, letting out a gasp of shooting pain as she sat down with little coordination, her head still spinning. Without hesitation, the herbalist took the knife from her table, sliding it under Misty’s collar and slashed the seams at her shoulders and the fabric crumpled to her hips, which was then cut and discarded.

The bandit shivered, the heat of the fire almost useless upon the realization that her corset and chemise the only things covering her now, barely managing to cover her thighs, a large cap of flesh revealed from where the hem ended and her long boots began.

A soft, distasteful tut escaped the older woman as she leant forward slightly as she carefully shifted the stained chemise to access the many wrap clothes that her wound had been bleeding through. “You’ve just been putting make-shift bandages down your collar?” the shorter blonde tutted again wringing out a clean, white cloth from the bronze bowl, cleaning away the dried blood staining her skin and the heat made Misty let out a hiss of unsuspecting pain.

“My mother used ta just put it on our cuts when we were just wee little bairnes.” The looter spoke through gritted teeth, growing accustomed to the heat before the healer pulled it away and dropped the red-stained cloth back into the water.

Her dark eyes glanced up to meet focused blue with pure intensity “This isn’t a cut, and you’re supposed to remove the old wraps before adding a new one, and you should also…” she admonished while pealing the discoloured wrappings from the blood-mattered, infected wound, “wash it between each.” The herbalist conveyed, letting a surprised gasp of her own fly free from her soft, plump lips at the actual seriousness of the graze. A normal wound wasn’t all too bad; a wound that had been left to fester for days without any treatment was an utter mess.

She stood steadily and made her way to the cabinet of jars, bottles, and envelopes, all organized with writing Misty couldn’t make out, picking through the ingredients and pushing vials aside, letting the glass scrape against the wood until she found what she was looking for. “It’s gonna be ten sceattas.”

“Ten Sceattas?!” The weakened woman parroted in wild astonishment, her voice raising so that she remembered how much her throat hurt her, “I could buy a new arm with that much!” she protested, the pain of he wound coming back to her now that it was exposed, and the heat of the fireplace just seemed to make it more irritating.

“Well, go over to Montgomery in the mountain's pass. She’ll cut your arm off for two sceatta. May even give you a discount if you scream pretty loud enough for her.” The woman chided and Misty paled even more so at the thought before pulling the bills from the pocket sewn in her chemise, she had just enough left over from her sales. The herbalist then pulled three bottles, an envelope, and cut some leaves from a potted plant by the window, setting them all on the table. She then snatched and inspected the bills before tucking them down her cleavage.

“You should have come to me sooner.” The shorter blonde sighed, leaning over to grab the pestle and mortar, grinding the cut leaves as she glanced back to the pale woman, who looked as if she were about to pass out and die on her flagstones.

“Snow was comin’ too fast. The ol’ mare gets confused in the storms, and I… I thought I had it under control.” The messy blonde explained in a huff of discomfort, undoing her boots carefully with one hand and a determined painful glance in her cerulean blue eyes.

“Well, you didn’t,” the older woman concluded unnecessarily, holding up a vile to the light of the fireplace before judgingly measuring a small amount into the mortar with ocular precision.  What have you been eating? Who’s been looking after you?”.

“No one else from the gang returned to our hideout after the carriage heist. I think it’s just the storm. I had some bread, it went rather stale on the second day, not that it was all too fresh to begin with, I also got some hare that I’ve been trying to save too,”.

The shorter blonde grimaced, the concern evident in the orange illumination of her soft features, her hands ever working as the contents from the stone bowl were evenly poured into two relatively clean bottles, “I figured as much, you’re weak”.

“Should I be thanking ya for that well-concluded observation? I know I’m weak as fuck,” Misty cursed, but honestly, after three days of carrying herself around, barely managing to sit upright on a horse, she knew pretty damn well about her non-existent strength. The dark-eyed woman elected not to comment, instead dropping a dried sprig into one vile and finely cut herbs in another.

 The herbalist presented one small bottle uncorked, the liquid a murky green. “Drink, it’ll fight the infection in your blood.”

“What is it?” The curly blonde questioned abruptly, bringing the vial up to her nose to inhale the horrid odour, recoiling with a disgusted sour expression contorting her features.

“California Poppy, quite the effective nerve reliever,-” The shorter blonde began to explain, corking the second bottle and proceeded to shake the contents in vigorous mixing. She was going to continue but Misty cut across her instantaneously.

“I’m not nervous,” The messy blonde shot, her lips set in a solid frown of disapproval, her blue eyes wider than they had been in days and glazed over with a sheen of helplessness that made the older woman soften even more so before continuing.

“A stronger decoction will correspondingly offer pain relief… It also contains Alfalfa, incredibly rich in minerals and nutrients so you’ll be getting a bit of life back into your bloodstream; and also, Navajo Tea, or as they call it down south Plains Tea or Coyote plant. It quickly removes the most brutal and irritating of infections…” The woman stated almost proudly whilst Misty eyes the vial timorously. “Don’t you trust me Misty Day?”

The scavenger scoffed, an easy grin pulling at her colourless lips, “Not ta be rude or anything, but ya did just greet me with a gun,” she sloshed the discoloured liquid around in its bottle, electing to sniff at its contents again.

“These are hostile areas, and as I told you, I only ever get the troublesome wounded, can you blame me for keeping up my guard?” she responded, sharper than she intended and was instantly overcome with guilt when Misty’s blue eyes flashed with emotional and physical pain. “But back to my question, do you trust me?”

The injured bandit let loose a staggered sigh, taking a moment to remember to hold herself upright, barely aware that she was gradually leaning to the left. To be truthful, this herbalist was the only one to offer any remedy or concoction that could relieve her of thee burning pain of an infected bullet wound, knew of her background and wouldn’t turn her over to the sheriff; at least she hoped; so yes, she did trust her.

With that thought swimming in her mind, Misty raised the vial to her cracked lips, hesitating a single wavering second before drinking.

The tonic burned more than Old Sally’s gin bar, scorching her throat like she had just chosen to drink liquid fire; and the dirty blonde cried out in agony as the second bottle was poured over the wound on her arm. The herbalist took the red clover; special for their blood cleansing qualities and pressed the herbs to the cut, then wrapped a cotton strip around the arm to keep them there. The burn was unbearable, and Misty pulled away sharply.

“Ya know, I usually know the name of the person who’s hurting me,” The outlaw whined with a severe edge to her cutting tone, a slight scowl printed on her sharp and dirty features alongside a helpless pout. The herbalist smiled gently, reaching back for the woman’s arm and tied the wrap off.

“I’m _curing_ you, not hurting you.” She corrected, with an arched brow before collecting the mortar and two vials, clearing the floor before she returned to the bandit after taking another bottle from the shelf on the wall.

Misty didn’t feel any better about the predicament after a slight word change. Curing, Hurting, she couldn’t exactly tell the difference, “Well, it still hurts like hell.” The curly-blonde scorned, tilting her head to inspect the bandage covered wound that was still burning with the fires from an inferno.

“Said like a person who’s never been shot.” The older woman mused, cleaning her hands on the length of her burgundy skirt, meeting the sincere blue gaze as the woman’s head snapped up in an instant.

“You don’t know that.” Misty acknowledged with her underlining bitter tone that came hand-in-hand with the pain that had consumed her ever since her arrival. Right then she contemplated if having her arm removed for two sceatta didn’t seem like all that bad an idea, now her whole arm was aflame with the burning sensation.

The healer helped Misty to her feet and together, they half stumbled, half dragged their way to the fur covered bed in the corner of the hut, where the curly blonde was helped down, sitting on the edge of the thick furs and sheets, wincing and growling in pain.

The older woman let loose a low purr-like chuckle, “Well, if you have, then this should just be a walk in the meadow. Drink this now.” She ordered softly, handing the second bottle to the outlaw. The substance was rather thick and golden and rather reluctantly after the first experience, Misty drank the syrup, relieved to find it was warm and sweet like honey. Almost immediately, the pain started to retreat, the burning subsiding and the physical sting of the graze numbed.

“Thanks love,” Misty sighed, almost groaning form the pure joy of being able to sit comfortably for the first time in seventy-two hours, her fingers threading softly though the soft fur. “So, is this enough or do I take a couple of bottles for the road?” she inquired heavily, her voice sounding a little lower than usual.

With a silent chuckle and a warm grin, the herbalist shook her head, pushing the woman’s curls were pushed in front of her shoulders whilst Miss Day fought her own eyelids. “You aren’t going anywhere.” She took out a clean night dress from her bureau by the bed, a pale white cotton shift that was laid on top of the sheets with care.

“What?” Misty felt even more tired suddenly, like all her muscles were undone and the days of traveling, hiding and surviving were finally catching up to her. Her head felt all the more heavy and it was taking too much effort to keep herself conscious, yet some part of the bandit knew that none of this was natural.

“You need to be looked after. The ten sceatta covers room and board.” It was then that Misty Day realized the other woman was loosening the ties of her well-laced corset, completely undressing her. Then the softest chemise Misty had ever felt went over her head temporarily flattening her curls, and for the first time in days she could move her arm.

“I don’t know your name,” Misty mumbled into the feather pillow that was somehow under her head, opening her eyes several times after realizing that they had closed, and despite all her efforts, she just couldn’t focus on the face of the healer, who she could tell was just inches away

“It’s Cordelia,” the woman whispered in return as she pulled the quilt up to the blonde’s shoulders, followed by the furs that provided her with warmth that she hadn’t received in years.


	2. But love me anyway?

The young girl stared so intently at a broken stick on the dirty ground of the grassy bank, not for any other reason other than she was too scared to look up at the faces of what would be considered as her new family, even though they paid her little mind. She had never known anyone other than her mother and siblings; and of course the people on the ranch where she worked. But after being caught sneaking eggs into her pinafore for her family to eat; twelve-year old Misty Day was left to fend for herself in the streets of her little village that smelt primarily of coal and the open-market fishmongers.

She had been shivering on the side of the dirt road leading into the town, quite far away from the place she had lived all her pitiful life; her feet sore and bleeding and her legs bruised from effortless walking; she had been close to losing consciousness when he found her.

“Eat child, there is plenty here for those who are faithful,” The man spoke in his charming whisper, a smile upon his lips as they sat around a small cracking fire as the summer sun was setting low above the treetops, casting final gold rays through the emerald leaves. Misty shook herself back to the present and fidgeted upon the log where she sat.

Misty glanced around nervously, despite the soft hunger waging a war in her stomach and it was with the notion that the other were all eating, that the child timidly picked up the leg of chicken and nibbled shyly, trying to keep to herself. These people were strangers, and although they seemed nice enough, passing around a tankard and laughing, she wasn’t all too sure that she was welcome, after all, everyone there was older than her. Before she had realized it, Misty had picked the chicken clean, right down to the very bone and her hunger rather satisfied.

“You’ve been wandering the streets a while my child, have another,” The dark-skinned man ensured, holding out his own food to the girl who looked like a knife was pointing her direction and not a chicken leg. Misty didn’t say a word as she gingerly accepted it, but glanced up to the one who spoke, his dark skin tainted with even darker freckles; his dreadlocks were pushed back with a red bandana and the smile upon his lips a borderline between the friendliest and slightly nerve-wrecking, it was impossible to decide.

Halfway through the second leg of chicken, the girl finally spoke up with a quiet whisper, “Who… who are ya?” and the tall man smiled in warm comfort, pulling his waterskin pouch from the belt strapped around his chest.

“Oh no, here he goes,” one of the older women joked, a rugged looking girl with red hair braided behind her back and tied with lace, yet whoever it was, the man paid no attention; but smiled still, his teeth glowing in the light that filtered through the leafy green-canvas of the open wood.

“Call me Father Legba. I was a high priest serving the seven-faced God in the Chapel of the Keeper, a man of charity and good-will. One night, the Sheriff had me falsely arrested, framed for the poisoning of the Bishop. For years, I rotted away in a cell… where they forgot about me, until the day came when I faced execution, I was sentenced with a public hanging for a crime I had not committed. They brought me to the square an innocent man, and I left as a criminal, the blood of guards on my hands as I escaped. So I found a way to live, and I picked this lot up along the way, all who have faced circumstances such as yourself. Who are we, my child? Just a cult of outlaws providing you with a loving family,”.

The skinny little blonde let her gaze stare for the longest time at Legba with wide blue eyes; her innocence sublime and unwavering, hardly deterred that she was surrounded by criminals. His smile was friendly, Misty decided, though others might have thought otherwise; the little girl became a bandit and a daughter that day.

 

* * *

 

 

Outlaw Misty Day forced open her hefty eyes as she woke up in excruciating agony, a silent strangled cry flying from her pale lips as the pain shot through her arm with blazing fire. The bandit sat up slowly and carefully, surrounded by thick pelts and clean sheets; and the curly-haired woman cradled her bandaged arm. The first thing that she had noticed, was that the wrappings had obviously been changed during the night, but even still, drops of crimson blood were evidently staining the material. The second thing she had observed was that her arm wasn’t caked with dirt; the muck banished from beneath her nails and in mild confusion, Misty glanced at her other arm, equally as clean and daringly, she pushed back the covers; her long legs had been washed too.

Suddenly, the woman swallowed heavily. She had paid for treatment, even for the accommodation, but she hadn’t agreed to have her privacy, her virtue invaded; and uneasily Misty pulled the blanket back up to her shoulders as she sat alone, glancing around the cottage that was now bathed in a cold light from the day, the sun hidden behind thick grey clouds like a prisoner. The snow was falling tediously again, casting tiny dancing shadows upon the floor where the snowflakes spiralled before getting entangled in a wrenching gust of wind to be lost forever.

An old brass basin sat on the counter top, filled almost to the brim with now cold water that had taken on a red tinge and a stained cloth floated in the discoloured liquid. The logs remained charred in a now cold fireplace, ash colouring the flagstones with dusty, black smudges. In the daylight, the little cabin seemed all too cold without the fire and to put it to the test, Day let loose a shaky exhale, observing as a pale cloud extended from her quivering lips.

Hearing a soft scrape and a quiet purr, Misty glanced over the bottom of the bed, purely shocked to see a fluffy, chocolate brown cat ransacking her satchel, all that was showing was the feline’s backside and tail, her front buried into the curly-blonde’s bag. With a satisfied yowl, the cat removed herself from the haversack, proudly holding what was left of her skinned hare in its mouth.

“Oi! Ya greedy mog, that’s mine!” Misty exclaimed, pushing back the furs and brought herself to the edge of the bed, overcome with a spinning dizziness, her head pounding like her brain was being compressed in her skull.

“Good morning to you too,” Cordelia spoke with the slightest of smirks upon her lips as she shut the front door of her cottage, meeting narrowed blue eyes that seemed much brighter than they did when she had arrived in such an awful shape. It had been rather startling to the older woman late in the night; the bandit was shaking from the battling infection, her temple scorching and the herbalist cooled her fever and washed the wound again, before she had taken to washing the dirt away from her tainted skin… and her complexion was deadly pale, white as the snow.

 She had been all too scared that she had done something wrong, but seeing her now, Cordelia was pleased to see some colour had returned to her face.

“Your cat ate my breakfast,” Misty whined in undermining grouchiness and accusation as she glanced across to the older woman as soon as the tell-tale lock clicked in place and the herbalist shook the snowflakes from her hood, hanging the cloak up on a wooden peg situated in the wall.

The shorter blonde turned around with a hint of a warm smile gracing her dainty, plump lips as she heaved a bucket onto the central table; it was filled to the brim with icy, cold water drawn from the well. “I see you met Queenie,” her gaze sped to the brown, furry creature that was all too content eating the remains of the meat whilst curled up on the couch.

“You named your _cat_ Queenie?” The Bandit mused, half humoured by the fact half in disbelief, earning a simple nod in response as Cordelia dragged over a stool to the bed where the curly-blonde was still sitting, and began to carefully peel back the temporary cloth covering her wound.

“She’s quite the regal feline, comes and goes when she pleases, does what she wants when she wants, sometimes I believe this cottage is more hers than it is mine,” The shorter blonde exclaimed, disregarding the blood-spotted cloth and tied a fresh clean bandage in its place after dabbing the healing graze with a soaking cold flannel.

Misty just sat on the edge of the bed, reluctantly allowing the older woman to tender to her wound, “Back to the point, your regal feline stole my game, she’s a thief!” she declared in a huff, hissing ever so softly as the healer tied off the bandage a little too tightly, and resultantly earned a stare of cerulean blue daggers.

“Sorry,” The shorter woman empathized, her doe-like dark eyes cast tenderly over the weakened blonde, still rather pale for her liking “She takes after you then?” Cordelia jested with a warm, almost teasing grin, even earning a crack of a smile from the outlaw who practically looked proud at the comment.

“Very funny,” the outlaw muttered, adjusting her position ever so slightly, so that her arm sat comfortably in a way where she didn’t have to move all that much.

Cordelia glanced worriedly to the girl whom, for a second blatantly ignore her herbal remedy, “How are you feeling?” The woman asked with a soft wince, noting evidently that the graze was still opening slightly after the clean. A soft fingertip delicately traced the fraying edge of the bandage she had wrapped, eliciting a soft shudder from the curly-haired bandit.

“On top of the world,” Misty decided with as much confidence as she could muster, still slightly grimacing as she shuffled slightly, the thick furs brushing against her bare thigh. Her eyes closed under the pressure of the throbbing of her arm and she was no fool to hope that her healer hadn’t noticed.

Worry flashed in dark, brown eyes, her brow furrowing rather seriously giving off the impression that this wasn’t the time for games when the younger blonde was in pain. “How about you drop the attitude and answer me again?” the herbalist declared, her intent coming across clearly when Misty’s shoulders drooped in slight defeat.

“Alright, I don’ feel on top of the world… more like I should be buried six feet below it,” the curly-haired blonde mumbled with a shrug that took too much effort, and a flash of white pain seared through her nerves; a quiet hiss escaping from her lips, immediately receiving the older woman’s serious attention.

Cordelia shook her head, loosening the tie of her bandage, just to reposition it in a more comfortable way so that it didn’t pull as much when the bandit moved. “It will hurt. The Navajo leaves create a stinging sensation to an open wound, but without them your infection would only be festering still,” she explained quietly, for the first time in a very long time; Cordelia wished that she could do more.

The thief sat as still as the open-mouthed gargoyles that perched high upon the castle roofs and equally as cold as the stone statues. Her breath came forcefully from her lungs as she was trying to steady the pain, gritting her teeth behind lips in effort as not to cry out in combined agony and frustration. The unwillingness to hold a conversation with the older woman almost hurt the herbalist in a way she never knew could affect her.

“I don’t suppose you have any family who’ll be looking for you, do you?” The healer asked, pulling her lithe fingertips away from the material simply to study the weak shivering blonde; and although the woman was not all too comfortable around strangers, she purely wished for Misty’s sake that the sun would make an appearance through the thick, unforgiving clouds just to shine upon her little cabin and warm up the outlaw.

Day decided to wait a moment before answering, her track of thoughts lost somewhere deep inside that ever-turning mind of hers. With a very slow shake of her head, the young woman sighed, a visible pout present on her colourless lips; the sincere blue of her eyes focused on a little chip in the wood of the cabinet right beside her.

“I’m a thief Cordelia, ya really expect me ta have a loving home ta go to with family that are worried ‘bout my disappearance?” She exclaimed bitterly, her jaw set in place the pain in her stare obvious and freshly stinging. For a moment, it seemed to the herbalist that the bandit was in more emotional pain than she was in physical.

“I apologize…” she whispered gently just as the curly blonde let loose another mangled cry of pain when the stinging became too unbearable and the herbalist leant over for the vile of that honey-like substance, holding it towards the bandit as a dainty hand softly caressed the small of Misty’s back caringly. “Here, have some more of this, you didn’t sleep as long as you needed if your wound is still opening of its own accord. I’ll wake you up for dinner,” Cordelia promised and without question, the curly-haired criminal accepted the remedy and almost instantly, her eyes grew increasingly heavier, and she felt the woman steady the falling vial in her hand and help her lay back down ever so carefully.

“I’m sorry for snappin’ at ya,” Misty whimpered softly, her head rolling back further into the pillow as she rolled closer to the wall, wincing as the slowly subsiding discomfort piqued up at her movements.

Cordelia frowned gently at the younger woman’s shuffles and seated herself on the edge of the bed, leaning ever so gently to brush a stray strand of dirty golden curls out of Misty’s face, “It’s alright, you’re going to be fine,” she promised soothingly, watching as extraordinary blue eyes fought to remain open.

“Ssh, Delia, I’m not in any pain, your little healin’ hands can’t hurt me, just stay here…” the words trailed off into sweet silence as the bandit was cast into calm oblivion, and Cordelia sat there for a moment, counting ever shaky exhale that made Misty’s chest fall. Decisively, the older woman shook her head with a betraying smile, slipping off her worn black shoes before slipping beneath the furs beside her.

“I’m right here,” Goode whispered, her fingers brushing sweetly through messy tresses, simply at sensual peace with watching the girl sleep.

 

The bandit woke of her own accord, rather confused to discover the cottage in the same state of darkness that she had found it in the day previous, black shadows of night lurking in the corners where the light of the warming fire failed to reach. The bitter wind was howling outside, whistling through the cracks in the walls and shaking the thin glass in its frame; instinctively, Misty pulled the covers tighter around her shivering, acing body as she managed to hoist herself into a sitting position. Her alert sapphire glaze darting around the cottage, searching for reassurance… and she found it when her eyes landed upon the smiling face of the herbalist, watching her from the corner chair that the fire-light only half bathed in its inviting glow.

“Oh, that’s a relief…” Cordelia sighed, her dainty hand resting over her chest, pearly white teeth displayed when her grin tugged up to her cheeks.

The accented blonde groaned as she stretched and sat up, able to move her arm properly without a searing jolt of agony racing through her whole body. She blinked softly a moment before glancing back to the herbalist. “How long was I out for?” Misty mumbled in the middle of a yawn that she had been trying to suppress.

“Three Days,” the healer responded instantly, leaning forward with her hands clasped together in her lap, watching as blue eyes widened in pure horror and confusion, pushing back the covers with a start. Golden curls flew around startled by the newly found information.

“Three Days?” The bandit exclaimed horrified, glancing around the cottage with a critical gaze, trying to figure what could have possibly changed, before glancing down to her hands, as if making sure they hadn’t wrinkled over the period of seventy-two hours. Looking back up, Misty gazed puzzled toward the older woman who was watching her in mild fascination and with a soft smile twinging upon her lips.

“No, you only woke up this morning, I’m simply playing with your head. Though I was beginning to grow concerned that you weren’t going to wake up,” Cordelia cogitated with a light shoulder shrug, simply brushing off the excuse as the younger woman visibly relaxed. The soft grin situated upon her soft lips was indeed one of most genuine liberation.

Misty mirrored the gentle smile, the corners of her lips tugging into a gentle smile, the warmth creeping up into her cheeks as she held that intimate gaze, she didn’t know that the herbalist had it in her to make jokes, “Ya look appallingly anxious,” the outlaw declared, only now aware of the familiar clench of her stomach, the almost unendurable pain that was the ever-existing result of an empty stomach. She was no stranger to near starvation, after all, it was the main cause that she was in this mess now… and the thief hugged her stomach firmly, feeling sick but having nothing at all to throw up.

In an instant, Cordelia was by her side, supporting the messy blonde just as she was about to double over, silently retching with no effect. “There now, just breath… That’s a good girl.” The herbalist coaxed softy, the back of her lithe fingers caressing Misty’s gaunt cheek carefully whilst the injured blonde finished her violent round of gagging, coughing and spluttering. The older woman’s voice was gentle and as warm as the fire place as she pushed dirty curls over the others shoulder. “There’s a rabbit stew cooking over the fire, won’t be all too long now” she assured, finally drawing her hands away from the bandits cold face.

Misty managed to sit properly when the pain subsided, and allowed the healer to aid her to stand and lead her towards the table where Queenie was sprawled on top of the rough wood, her belly turned towards the fire.

Before long, a wooden bowl was pushed into her trembling hands, filled with a steaming broth that smelt nicer than anything in the world that made her stomach churn in anticipation. It had been far too long since she had eaten a proper meal… a proper _ho_ t meal, and Misty quickly forgot her grace and her trepidation as she ate ever-so-quickly, as if it was her very last dinner.

Cordelia tried not to watch in overlooking concern, seeing how the outlaw so quickly consumed the stewed rabbit and nutritional greens, and it entertained her mind when it was the woman had last eaten this way, without having to steal cold game or share the poor catches with the rest of her cult.

They ate in relative silence, the shorter blonde sparing every second glance to look up at the outlaw who seemed too engrossed in eating to actually notice. The atmosphere was thick but calm, most likely due to the warmth and brightness of the flickering fire tenderly protecting the women from the resentful winter wind that howled like the wolves on the other side of that door.  

“So, ya say ya get the troublesome travelers…” Misty broke the silence, scraping the last spoonful out of her bowl, prompting a conversation to spark between the two. The herbalist stood quietly, not a word leaving her lips as she took Misty’s bowl and refilled it with more of the stew that was still simmering over the fire.

“I get a lot of people like you, fugitives and criminals that are too hurt and broken for the road,” She told, setting the bowl back down in front of the messy blonde who glanced up with wide round eyes, screaming silent awe and thanks towards her at the gesture, “ But then again, I don’t think I’ve ever met an outlaw like you Misty,” before she could say anything however, the older woman had hurried on,  “Bounty hunters come knocking on my door some unsuspecting nights, frightens the life out of me at times.  I patch them all up and send them on their merry way once they’re good enough to go,” Cordelia finished, resting her chin on her palm whilst contently watching her patient.

It was then that Misty glanced up again, “Will ya be sending me on my merry way?” She asked pitifully after swallowing with an audible gulp, still racing to eat as if there was a deadline. Her wide eyes were tinged with a gloss of disappointment and yet a glimmer of hope, but still managing to conceal it all with a single curious glance.

“No, not yet,” The shorter woman spoke softly, a gentle shake of her head causing the tip of her braided hair to tickle her back. “You still require my medical attention” Cordelia hinted, returning the small smile that entertained Misty’s lips before the outlaw ducked out of sight, retching into an empty bucket.

Cordelia’s chair screeched as she pushed it back, hurrying to the woman’s side as she violently threw up, her body shaking from the effort. “It’s okay sweetheart, let it all out. It’s normal when you’ve not eaten properly in so long… I should’ve told you to take it slow,” the healer assured, holding back those wild, honey curls from so that they didn’t fall in her face.

“I- I’m sorry,” the bandit whimpered when she finally sat back upright, her face pale and her head woozy, but the older woman silenced her with a quick ‘ssh’, and Misty wiped her mouth in slight shame. Instead, cerulean eyes studied the other womans figure as she crossed the room, filling another copper cauldron with water and hanging the pot from the spit over the rising fire, letting it warm. “What are ya doing?”

“I’m drawing you a bath,” The woman answered whilst pulling the tin tub out from the secluded corner. A bath sounded heavenly. An actual hot bath, with hot, clean water was a luxury that the bandit had quite forgotten, having only bathed in the river that cut through the depth of the forest, where the cold water ran directly down from the mountains.

She blinked slowly, regaining her sense, “Why? Ya washed me last night remember? When I was unconscious,” Misty reprimanded with a soft hint of accusation gracing her tone as she pushed back her chair to wonder across the room to where Cordelia was waiting in front of the fireplace.

“I scrubbed you with a cloth because you weren’t helping your infection, a bath will relax and sooth your tense muscles and actually clean you, and to be honest you did just empty your stomach on my floor” The older blonde concluded, wrapping thick material around her hands before lifting the pot from its hanging place over the fire and emptied the boiling water into the rather constricting tub.

After a few more sessions of this, Cordelia turned to the girl who was sat cross-legged on the couch, a purring Queenie curled up in her lap. “Bath’s ready,” she smiled, wandering over to heave her sleepy cat from the bandit, allowing the curly blonde to move; standing the other side of the tub and pull her borrowed chemise over her head, her back turned towards the other woman before removing her small clothes and almost eagerly she stepped into the hot water.

“Oh my seven-faced God, this is perfect!” the bandit exclaimed, drawing a chuckle out of the older woman who set her feline down on the floor. Misty giggled softly, reclining against the tin and let the heat overwhelm her.

“It’s the very least I can do, Misty,” The herbalist grinned, running her delicate fingers through dirty tresses absent-mindedly.

The water was transparent and she tried her best not to let her dark brown eyes wander. Not that it mattered, they were both women and hardly that pure. Cordelia scooped a jug full of water and easily poured it over the golden head of hair. The dirty blonde curls dampened in an instant and changed to a darker shade even as the muck washed out and her tresses became blonder and brighter. That was when the herbalist began scrubbing her shoulders with a sponge and rose oil. “Tell me about the raid,” she inquired distractedly, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

Misty stared down at her reflection peering back at her in melancholy. It was starting to sink in now, the loss, Father Legba who had picked up urchins from the street and gave them a community to belong to, her friends … all of them dead. The tension that had resided in her arms and shoulders drained from her; finally shaking away her thoughts, the bandit closed her eyes, resting back against the tub.

“We were all hungry, we’d lost seven men this month alone, we couldn’ steal from the town without taking enough for everyone… we’d get caught. Father Legba ordered a carriage raid, but usually we prepare for that kinda thing… set a boulder or an inconvenience in path to slow it. But we ain’t got nothin’.” She sighed, trailing a fingertip around in the surface of the water.

“And?” Cordelia prompted, pouring the water over her bare, prominent shoulders.

“And we were desperate, so we attacked, but we hadn’t the idea it was the sheriff, he had guards, an’ arms, and they gunned us down one by one… I woke up by the creek in pain, couldn’t remember what happened at firs’, but then I saw the blood stained ground where all my family laid in final horrific stance. I managed ta dig a grave for papa, I couldn’t a just left him. But I took what I could trade from my friends ta buy my way here…” Misty whimpered, pushing a tear away from her eyes.

The older woman frowned, setting down the jug before she knelt down on the cold, hard stone, resting her arms on the side of the tub as she smiled sadly to the bandit who could only stare with wide blue eyes. “I’m sorry… I really am,” she expressed, her pained gaze falling to the wrapped wound on her arm.

Tentatively, she undid the bandage, her lips tugging upwards in delight at the fact that the bullet graze was no longer infected and was healing rather rapidly. “You’ve got quite the speedy recovery material, haven’t you?” Cordelia exclaimed, tossing the fabric aside.

Misty blinked in soft confusion, lifting her arm to inspect it for herself. “Woah… that magic of yours works wonders… ya gifted!” the bandit swore, looking back up to the woman with a confident grin before pushing her hair over one shoulder, wringing all the water out before standing.

“This is healing really well… considering you don’t do anything drastic tonight you should be okay to go tomorrow,” The herbalist added, holding out a towel to the woman. For a moment, she had to order herself to stop feeling so resentful; she was used to people coming and going after all.

“Tomorrow?” The girl asked in abrupt surprise, wrapping the material around her clean and warm body, the air hitting her skin like a crashing cold wave and with Cordelia’s help, she stepped from the tub, stumbling slightly and all of a sudden, she was wrapped in the older woman’s secure embrace.

With a rather forced grin, the herbalist nodded slowly, assuring herself that she ought to feel pleased for the taller blonde. But with the outlaw pressed so close to her; her own arms holding the other woman; those blue eyes staring up at her intently, Cordelia couldn’t bring herself to feel happy about the situation. “Yes… I’ll prepare your horse ready for you in the morning,” The coldness of her voice had returned and with no smile gracing her features, she passed another chemise to Misty.

It was going to be a long, hard night for her.

* * *

 

 

True to her word; Cordelia had prepared the bandits stolen mare out the front with a warm blanket coating the animal’s backside and a satchel thrown over her containing food and medicine, plus the ten sceatta she had quite subtly returned when packing her waterskin pouch.

With unspoken sorrow, the herbalist glanced back to the woman who was pulling on her deer-skinned coat with ease… nobody would ever have guessed that only days ago she had been hit by a bullet. Still, the thief looked healthy, and Cordelia could only imagine that this was how she was when scaling up trees or crouching in the foliage before hitting her prey with deadly accurate aim.

Her cheeks flushed softly, knowing that she had never once felt this way when all her other patience left her after she had tendered and catered to their needs. What was so special about outlaw Day? Why did her soft, confident grin make her happy in ways that nothing else could? Why did looking after her mean so much to her than anything else?

“I’m ready,” that clear, accented voice broke through her thoughts and Cordelia felt her heart plummet. Already? She couldn’t be leaving already. Glancing out the window, the healer could tell that it was a perfect time to leave. The wind was just a strong breeze and the snow was not due to fall; the sun was only just up in the sky, lighting the way in the fine morning and would not set for a long time.

“Good, let’s get you on your way shall we?” she stated, ignoring the lump that formed in her throat as she followed the woman to the front door with unwilling steps and a downcast glaze coating her eyes.

The tension was thick as swirling snow as Misty stood on the opposite side of the wide-open door, as silent as the unmarked graves; all the while gazing down at the healer who was trying hard not to fidget with unnecessary reluctance. Perhaps the older woman hadn’t expected the outlaw to leave so soon; perhaps she had grown used to the messy-haired blonde and her presence there with her in that cute little cottage; perhaps Cordelia had grown tired of only having her wild cat to talk too when the nights grew too long, but whatever the reason there was a silent beg in those chocolate eyes that couldn’t hold a gaze for more than five seconds a time.

The oak door swung noisily, further open as the wind pushed stubbornly, consequently causing the shorter blonde to pull her brown shawl further over her shoulders, prompting her to say something, rather than let them both stand there and invite the cold chill to her home and to her bones. “Goodbye then,” she spoke, not letting her emotion find its way into her tone.

“Good bye,” Misty whispered, glancing down at the doorstep, trying to figure out what else to say in her mind. “Maybe I’ll get shot for stealing a chicken and find myself back here sooner than I thought,” she suggested, managing to bring forth the smallest of smiles from the herbalist.

“I wouldn’ say no to your company, but… try not to get shot for stealing a chicken,” Cordelia bit gently on her bottom lip, holding her arms as the wind blew again, brushing through curly, golden locks similarly to the way the older woman did it during the majority of her sleepless night.

Misty held herself up a bit taller, shaking her head, “Nah, course not, a chicken’s lame, I’ll have to get shot at a big heist, a _huge_ one,” she expressed, her blue eyes lighting up brightly as if she already had her next big plan in mind.

Cordelia laughed softly, shaking her head, and for a moment she felt alright, like her world wasn’t going to fall apart after all. “Oh? And what are you planning to steal this time?” she questioned, absent-mindedly sidling closer to the bandit who fixed her with a knowing smile.

“Somethin’ real precious… I was thinking your heart?” Misty considered, her grin growing wider and for a second, the herbalist needed to roll the words over in her mind, just to make sure they were real, and not just her imagination telling her what she wanted to hear.

The older woman jumped up on her toes, flinging her arms around the outlaws neck and nearly throwing the girl off balance with the force of her affection. Cordelia pushed her lips against Misty’s delighting upon the feel of her strong hands holding onto her hips and her opposing soft and gentle lips kiss her back with fiery passion. They stole a breath, and kissed again, and again and again right there on the doorstep in front of the meek little cottage, Cordelia’s body pressed so lovingly close to the bandits,

“You don’t have to go anywhere for that,” She replied breathlessly, not moving her arms from their loop around Misty’s neck as she led the woman back inside.

The door shut forcefully from the heavy kick of the outlaw and laden snow fell from the thatch roof onto the stone far beneath it; silently applauding the show of adoration between an infamous bandit and a talented herbalist who would surely live an exhilarated life by each other’s side… _right?_

But that’s another story.

 


End file.
